


Whiskey Lullaby

by justrae2010



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Character Death, Clubbing, Come here for tears and misery, Crying, Depression, Divorce, Don't come here for a good time, Drunk Sex, Drunk Skating, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, It's not fun, Low key stalking, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mixing Alcohol with Pills, Not A Happy Ending, Post-Break Up, Recovery, Retirement, Stranger Sex, Therapy, We have lots of that, graphic description of death, graves, teen drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrae2010/pseuds/justrae2010
Summary: Victor could still feel the pain of their last fight. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d ever outlive it, if there was enough vodka in the world to numb the pain away. He could still see the tears glittering in Yuuri’s eyes as he’d silently packed his bag. He could still hear Yuuri’s last scream at him, voice hoarse from their hours of shouting. He could still feel the shudder that had gone through him when Yuuri had slammed the door behind him, never to walk back through it again.Yurio had come to get the last of Yuuri’s things out of their apartment a few days later.Yakov had driven him to the airport the next week.Phichit had posted the hell out of a red eyed Yuuri the moment he’d landed in Bangkok, Yuuri looking exhausted and heartbroken and so pitifully beautiful that it hurt for Victor to look at him - but he had to. There was no other way he’d see him anymore.The divorce papers had come through a month later.Yuuri didn’t come back.Victor needed a drink.





	Whiskey Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Victuuri Angst Bang and with amazing art by my girl Andi <3 
> 
> Thank you so much for putting up with my awkward communicating and unreliable Discord log in times xD Please go check her out and follow her on [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/prologhe/?utm_source=ig_profile_share&igshid=1irt0usfseouz) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/prologhex) and give all the likes and follows!!
> 
> Story idea was inspired by the song [Whiskey Lullaby by Brad Paisley](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZbN_nmxAGk).
> 
> Buckle in and PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!!

Victor could still feel the pain of their last fight. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d ever outlive it, if there was enough vodka in the world to numb the pain away. He could still see the tears glittering in Yuuri’s eyes as he’d silently packed his bag. He could still hear Yuuri’s last scream at him, voice hoarse from their hours of shouting. He could still feel the shudder that had gone through him when Yuuri had slammed the door behind him, never to walk back through it again.

Yurio had come to get the last of Yuuri’s things out of their apartment a few days later. 

Yakov had driven him to the airport the next week.

Phichit had posted the hell out of a red eyed Yuuri the moment he’d landed in Bangkok, Yuuri looking exhausted and heartbroken and so pitifully beautiful that it hurt for Victor to look at him - but he had to. There was no other way he’d see him anymore.

The divorce papers had come through a month later.

Yuuri didn’t come back.

Victor needed a drink.

* * *

Victor knew he was torturing himself. He nursed a glass of pity vodka in his hand as he hit the replay button on Yuuri’s Stammi Vicino video for what must be the hundredth time that evening. He couldn’t help it. 

He missed him.

_ Desperately. _

Victor knocked the last of the glass back and reached for the bottle on the coffee table as the music strung up again and Yuuri danced his adoration._ All gone now _, Victor knew, chest aching at the thought. It was over. 

* * *

Two days later, the video was deleted from YouTube.

* * *

Victor felt like screaming - but he could barely gulp enough oxygen into his lungs to keep breathing, let alone yell. His chest felt tight, windpipe rough like sandpaper. It hurt. Everything hurt.

The words on the gravestone were too blurry for him to make out anymore, swaying in his double vision. It was fine. He’d memorised them over the last three hours he’d been sat in the pet cemetery anyway, every syllable stinging deep and cruel.

_ ‘Makkachin Nikiforov, _

_ 2001-2020, _

_ A beloved companion’ _

Victor’s fingers clung tight to the bouquet of flowers in hand, crumpling the delicate stems of the carnations as the air hitched in his throat.

He was alone.

For the first time in his life, he was truly alone.

* * *

Victor knew it wasn’t the same - the man he was kissing in the back alley behind the club could have the darkest raven hair, could have the longest eyelashes, could make the sweetest whimpers like Yuuri used to as Victor’s hand moved in short, jerky motions over their cocks … but he wasn’t Yuuri. 

The alcohol was thrumming in Victor’s veins, taking the sting off the chill, blurring his vision just enough that the face in front of him might just be Yuuri if he squinted in just the right way…

He knew he’d screwed up. He’d drank too much. He was supposed to have training at the rink tomorrow - Victor just hadn’t been able to face another evening alone in the cold, empty flat by himself though. He just couldn’t.

Even after Victor came, he still felt hollow. 

* * *

“Are you... okay? You look like-”

_ Shit, _Victor finished curtly in his head for Yurio, taking a sip from his water bottle and fighting the urge to grimace. It would only give him away.

There was just a generous dash of vodka mixed in too after all.

He couldn’t help it. 

He’d just needed a little pick-me-up to get him out of bed that morning. It hadn’t helped nearly as much as he thought it would in lifting his spirits though...

Yurio narrowed his eyes, the teen looking like he wanted to say more. Victor was glad when he didn’t.

He was worried when Yurio skated off silently though, not even a muttered curse in his wake. It wasn’t like Yurio, a grumble for everything usually. Victor’s had started to fall thin as of late. Victor detested it.

He didn’t need their pity.

Victor took another sip.

* * *

“What do you mean _ disqualified _?!”

Victor knew he should feel something, that the words he was hearing were important, and that he should be worried about the way Yakov’s face was deathly white instead of its usual flaming red… but he didn’t. He didn’t feel anything.

He just stared sightlessly ahead as the blood tests results were read out in the medical room, something about blood-alcohol percentage and something about being unable to compete. The competition officials were there too. They weren’t usually there for his blood tests. It must be serious, Victor thought vaguely.

He was surprised at how little he actually cared though.

He just blinked, blinked once more, and blinked again. 

_ A shit day then _, he thought miserably to himself, feeling numb. At least he’d have an excuse to have a drink to help him forget when it was all over. 

* * *

Half an hour later, pictures of Victor leaving the centre with a bowed head and eyes hidden by sunglasses appeared alongside splashed headlines of _ ‘Nikiforov DISQUALIFIED from Worlds in shock scandal!’ _ flooded the internet.

* * *

Two hours later, as he pulled the door to his hotel room shut behind him, the sound jolting out of his daze at last, Victor realised at last what had happened. It sank into his bones, eyes widening with the realisation. 

He was finished.

His knees buckled beneath him and his back slid down the door, hand slapping over his mouth just in time to catch a messy sob.

He’d fucked up. 

* * *

A week later, Victor Nikiforov announced his retirement from competitive figure skating. 

* * *

Victor hissed as he hobbled out of the elevator in his apartment complex, one arm thrown over Yakov’s shoulders and the other thrown over his face, hiding his shame. He didn’t know what else to do.

Every step was agony, pain like wildfire raging down his right hamstring with every inch he hobbled. Hobbled was an accurate word. He inched forward no further than half a foot at a time - gasping with agony all the way - all but draped over Yakov to hold him upright as the pain made his head spin. Really, he guessed a pulled hamstring was a lucky escape. If he’d have been stupid enough to try jumping, Victor was pretty sure that his landing would have ended up with the ice splattered in crimson. 

“What were you thinking, boy?” Yakov still growled beside him though, huffing under the effort of supporting his former prodigy down the hallway. “Skating drunk - you know better than that.”

That was the worst bit - Victor did know better… and still, he’d done it anyway.

The hospital had exposed him. Victor was getting pretty tired of blood tests telling everyone his blood-alcohol level and all the disapproving looks it earned him. It wasn’t their business. He felt fine. The rink receptionist hadn’t noticed he was under the influence, he’d argued at the hospital, not entirely sure what point he’d been trying to make when he’d said it. All it had earned him was a formal ban from the rink.

After all, it might not have been the drink. Maybe he hadn’t warmed up properly, distracted and sad. Maybe he was just getting old. Just _ maybe _it had been the slip of vodka into his morning coffee...

Either way, Victor’s hamstring had snapped like a twig.

Yakov wasn’t kind as he wrestled Victor into his apartment and Victor all but collapsed on the couch, seething his howl of pain behind gritted teeth. It hurt. It hurt bad.

Instantly, he was thinking of the one thing that could help.

Yakov found it first though.

The clink of bottles from the kitchen made Victor’s heart leap in his chest embarrassingly fast, breath rasping in his throat. He was thirsty. He needed a drink. He was desperate to drink, and forget, and numb away the literal pain. He was sure it would work better than whatever painkillers the hospital had given him anyway.

“You’ll kill yourself, boy,” he heard Yakov say behind him, voice of his former coach yet somehow sounding nothing like him. It was soft. Sad. _ Sorrowful _. “He wouldn’t want this...”

Victor’s heart stopped dead in his chest at that.

It had never hurt so badly before.

* * *

Victor was glad he’d been somewhat responsible with his money in his youth. It was the only saving grace in his life as he boarded an expensive plane without a care in the world for the seventh time in two months, not even blinking as he was waved into the aircraft. He didn’t blink as he ordered a drink from the hostess. He didn’t blink when they landed. He really didn’t care about anything. 

Not until he got to that stadium the next morning and heard Yuuri Katsuki’s name roar out, the crowd’s scream deafening him.

It managed to summon a small twitch in the corner of his mouth.

It hurt seeing Yuuri skate, watching him glide so beautifully across the ice like his world wasn’t falling apart like Victor’s was, like he was fine. He probably was - _ he _was the one who had left after all. It had been his choice.

Victor’s hands shook, clasped tight together over his knees. He was strangely sober. Water bottles weren’t allowed inside the venue so he hadn’t been able to sneak any vodka in and no stand would serve hard liquor in the midst of an athletics tournament at midday. There was nothing. Victor felt strangely empty for it. His chest felt cold and hollow and his legs bounced unsettled, skin crawling and everything suddenly sounding so much louder than it should. His heart rabbited in his chest. He wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t used to working so hard without a little liquid courage anymore. 

He didn’t worry about getting recognised. A cap hid his signature silver hair - though it looked more dull and lifeless than it ever had in any of his competition days anyway. His eyes didn’t sparkle anymore. He didn’t smile. He’d lost a lot of weight since he’d retired. Muscle had wasted away, leaving him thin and gaunt with the hint of an unsightly gut starting to get tighter acquainted with his belt line. It didn’t matter. Who did he have to impress anymore?

Victor Nikiforov the champion was nothing but a myth now.

The ghost of him sat obscure amongst the mass of the audience, nobody sparing him a second glance. Why should they? He wasn’t important anymore.

But he did have money.

His stacks of savings from his former winnings had finally served their purpose - bailing him out when he was too retired to skate and too stupid to do anything else. His hamstring still wasn’t quite healed, still walking with a mild limp. And without skating, what other talents did Victor really have? 

So he ran, hopping from plane to plane, country to country, following Yuuri around the world to watch him skate because a glimpse of Yuuri Katsuki was the only thing that gave his life any sort of meaning.

He would never dare approach him though.

Yuuri had made it pretty clear in their last fight - they were done. There was no future for them, romantic or platonic. And with Victor in such pathetic shape…

He pulled his cap lower as Yuuri’s score rang out - a new record - and Yuuri dissolved into tears in the Kiss and Cry, crumpling into Phichit’s arms. Phichit… of course, it would be Phichit, the best friend who always nestled just that little bit deeper in Yuuri’s heart than Victor ever would be able to.

Victor stood to leave. He couldn’t watch anymore. He wasn’t there for any of the other competitors. And besides, there was a burning hole in Victor’s chest that needed filling.

* * *

Victor didn’t even know the name of the man he took home from the bar that night, plowing into him from behind with short, haphazard thrusts that did nothing for Victor. He couldn’t even get hard. He guessed the tequila was probably half to blame. He just braced his elbows on the mattress, fixed his eyes on the drab hotel headboard, and waited for it to be over. The rocky motions were giving him a headache.

Yuuri had won gold.

He’d decimated the competition, finishing with a magnificent quad flip so late in his programme that Victor had been certain there was no way he would land it. But he did. A final blow to his ex-husband, taking the last scrap of professional pride he might have had left.

Yuuri had talent, passion, and all the accomplishments that the sport had to offer. His name was scattered over the record holders charts. Gold medals littered his medal cabinet.

He didn’t need Victor anymore. 

Did he even still think about him?

Victor did - even as the man groaned out a shuddering breath behind him and his hips stilled, wetness slipping down the inside of Victor’s thighs. Victor felt the last of his dignity slip away.

* * *

The money ran out faster than Victor anticipated. He kicked the door to his apartment shut, only mildly surprised his key had actually still worked. With three late mortgage repayments and a letter from the bank explaining the process of possible repossession, Victor knew it was surely only a matter of time.

Not that there was much he could do about it, he thought, tossing the new letters on the kitchen table along with the others.

He had no income.

He couldn’t skate. He couldn’t coach. His sponsorships had all bought him out of his contracts to get rid of him and frankly, Victor didn’t care.

If anything, his fall from grace might at least buy him some publicity and a matching paycheck if he made it dramatic enough. If homelessness was the cost, then so be it.

What did he have to lose now?

For now though - body still functioning six hours out of his time zone - Victor just wanted to sleep. He washed some painkillers down with some whiskey to dull the headache pulsing in the front of his skull and fell asleep on the couch with his heart fluttering uncomfortably in his chest.

* * *

Victor wasn’t sure how he found himself holding back Yurio’s hair while the teen violently threw up into his toilet at 4am… but he was. He guessed Yakov had done the same for him when he’d been younger.

“‘m sorry,” Yurio whimpered when he got a moment to breathe, sniffling and clinging to the toilet bowl with a white knuckled grip. 

He looked absolutely miserable.

Tears streamed down his face and his cheeks were blotchy and red, eyes swimming like they could barely focus. His hair had already been somewhat splattered with vomit when Victor had picked him up from the bar - throwing up on the back seat of Victor’s car a few minutes later when Victor had braked a little too hard at a traffic light. He must have had a hell of a lot to drink, even by Russian standards.

Victor didn’t blame him. It had been a tough year. Puberty was hard enough for any nineteen year old, let alone achieving worldwide fame, his grandfather passing, and now his boyfriend of three years dumping him via Skype… yeah, Victor understood.

He understood - but he also knew drinking wasn’t the best way of dealing with it.

His gut twisted guiltily, only too aware that he hadn’t had a drink in the last four hours himself - even if he had been asleep for three of them. It wasn’t good. He knew it.

He didn’t want Yuri to end up like that too.

Victor’s eyes were blank and vacant as he stood up with a mumbled excuse, heart balking at just how small Yurio looked hunched over in his bathroom with no one and nothing to protect him from the cold, cruel world. He was still just a kid. He didn’t deserve this.

Victor didn’t want him to end up the same as him.

It was his sole driving thought as he left the bathroom and crossed his bedroom to the one drawer he hadn’t thought he’d ever open again, second down on the bedside table.

_ Yuuri’s drawer. _

Victor’s fingers paused on the knob before he pulled, bracing himself. He hadn’t touched it since Yuuri had left Russia, memories too painful, too cruel to bear facing. He’d shut his wedding ring away, the photos of them together, his copy of the divorce papers - everything was in this one drawer that he hadn’t dared open since.

Until now … because Yurio needed him to be brave more than he needed to be brave for himself. He had to.

He slipped the drawer open a fraction, fingers finding what they were looking for more on instinct that anything Victor could see through his blurry vision, sucking in a deep breath and blinking his eyes clear before he went back to the bathroom. He didn’t want Yuri to see him like that.

He just wrapped an arm around his younger counterpart, holding him as he groaned miserably into the toilet seat. “Here,” he said softly, holding up his token for Yuri to see before slipping it into the back pocket of the teen’s jeans - Yuuri’s old key. “If you ever need _ anything _.”

Victor felt something in his chest snap as he finally let the key go, letting it slide to the bottom of Yuri’s pocket and out of Victor’s touch once and for all. It was time, he told himself. It was right to pass it on.

Yuri needed it more.

He found it hard to regret his decision when Yuri’s eyes welled up afresh at the gesture, lip quivered traitorously. “Victor…”

Victor wasn’t prepared for when Yuri hugged him.

The teen clung to him like he was all he had in the world, aching Victor’s ribs with how tight he hugged and crying messy sobs into the front of Victor’s shirt. 

Victor didn’t care.

He just held the boy close, fingers threading through his hair at the back of his head and letting him cry it out. “Yuri.”

He couldn’t let Yurio fall down the same hell hole he had.

* * *

Victor made the decision after he’d lulled Yuri to sleep, sat up against his headboard with the teen’s head in his lap, fingers combing gently through his soft blonde locks. He wondered when Yuri had last had someone care for him like that. For all the brave bravado he put on the outside, Victor knew he was crumbling behind the screens. He needed someone.

Victor could be that someone.

_ No _ , Victor thought, eyes steeling with determination as the morning sun crept through the blinds - he _ would _ be that person.

* * *

The next morning, Victor knocked on the last door he knew that would open to him, with tears in his eyes and heart hanging on by a thread. 

“Please,” he begged, no dignity left anymore. 

Yakov had seen it all.

He waved Victor in without another word.

* * *

The first week was hell. 

Victor could barely leave the bathroom in the first two days, shaking and throwing up, sweat beading on his too hot skin and head pounding. Lights seemed too bright. A ringing in his ears wouldn’t seem to go away. Energy simmered just under his skin, making his fingers tremble and his heart hammer restlessly in his chest. He barely slept.

Luckily, he barely remembered it. He slipped in and out of consciousness, blacking out every now and then over the days. He found it hard to keep track of time. Minutes felt like hours. 

The first memory he had at Yakov’s that didn’t involve him peeling his face off the bathroom floor was waking up in bed with a blanket draped over his shoulders, a man’s voice singing softly in the background. The ringing in his ears was gone. 

A glass of water was on the bedside table. When Victor grabbed for it - throat dry and parched - he was relieved to realise that it was water. Not vodka.

It had been too long that he’d thought the opposite.

* * *

Victor stayed with Yakov for two weeks. 

He didn’t drink a drop.

The second week was easier. Yakov took him on walks - even started making him do short laps around the rink after training sessions for his skaters were done. They left Victor breathless after minutes, doubling over and clutching his sides. Victor hadn’t realised quite how unfit he had gotten. It was startling.

He got a haircut.

Yakov paid off Victor’s outstanding mortgage repayments, negotiating a payment plan with the bank to keep Victor’s flat in possession.

He convinced Victor to see a therapist. 

He helped Victor get rid of the bottles of alcohol in his flat, clearing out every shelf, every cupboard until nothing but tea remained. It was strangely freeing. Victor couldn’t remember feeling so light since his divorce.

* * *

When Victor came home from his therapy two weeks later, he was already feeling on a cliff edge. The sessions hurt. How could they not? The source of his recent behaviour had stemmed from his divorce and his therapist insisted that the only way to work through it was to _ work through it _, no matter how much it hurt to talk about his ex husband. In her defence, with every session, Victor understood more.

He’d been a bad husband. 

He hadn’t listened, he hadn’t invested enough time in their relationship, he hadn’t wanted to address the small problems because they always led to bigger cracks that he would rather just gloss over and ignore…

Yuuri hadn’t been perfect either, but Victor wasn’t blind anymore. He had flaws. He had to address them. The pain wouldn’t go away.

So there Victor was, sat at his desk at some ungodly hour with moonlight streaming through his window, pen in hand, _ addressing _ his problem.

‘_ Dear Yuuri,’ _ he wrote, pausing after that. 

He didn’t know what to say.

Sorry, was probably a good start. Sorry for how he acted. How he treated Yuuri. How Yuuri must feel because of the way Victor pushed their problems aside so carelessly… he had a lot to apologise for. 

In hindsight, his divorce could have been entirely preventable. 

His tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips. He was thirsty. He glanced up to the glass of water in the corner of his desk. He wasn’t thirsty for that.

He forced his eyes back down to the paper. He wrote something.

A few minutes later, he scrunched up the paper and threw it across the room.

He started again.

* * *

When Yakov surprised him at the rink with a red casino chip coin with ‘_ 1 month _’ engraved into its face two days later, Victor felt like crying.

* * *

That night, he did, pouring over a letter he wrote to Yuuri that he would never send.

* * *

It took another few weeks for Victor to finish spilling his heart onto paper before he finally started to feel lighter. More at peace. More … happy. He started to think less about Yuuri. He didn’t attend Yuuri’s next competition. He didn’t even watch it online - he took Yuri to a movie instead, finishing his evening with a call to Georgi congratulating him on the recent wedding invite he’d received through the post from him and Anya. 

He was doing well. He was moving on. He was fitter, healthier, happier, relearning how to be his own man again. Everything was good.

…until the day of his wedding anniversary.

Victor’s palms were sweaty as he sat at his desk, pen pinched too tight between his fingers and tears dotting down on the paper below. He couldn’t help it. It had all came flooding back to him unexpectedly, that one day that was supposed to remind him of the best day of his life now just reminding him of the biggest hole in his life. 

He’d been crying for a long time - his therapist had told him to embrace the feelings, to listen to them rather than just shut them out. Victor had been listening for hours. Exhaustion pulled at his eyes and at his gut, for something he knew he couldn’t have.

It hurt more than he’d thought it would. 

Thinking about Yuuri _ hurt _ in a way Victor hadn’t let himself really feel in the year since their divorce, always drowning his sorrows in drink or sex or something else stupid that he was sure to regret sooner or later. It pulled on his heart strings, left him gasping for breath, left him desperate for relief.

He didn’t have anything even if he’d wanted to. He and Yakov had cleaned his kitchen out of alcohol long ago and Victor couldn’t imagine picking himself up enough to drag himself to an actual bar.

He was stuck, sober and suckered.

Because deep down, he knew he was still in love with Yuuri Katsuki and that he would never stop being in love with him.

Victor glanced back over his shoulder across the bedroom - at the drawer - to the only remnants of Yuuri Katsuki left in his apartment. It didn’t hurt like the last time Victor had opened it as he flew across the bedroom and yanked it open, _ needing _ to see him, to smell him, to let his memory sink into Victor’s bones until he could see him so clearly it was like he was really back again - no, it hurt _ worse. _

_ So much worse. _

Especially when Victor pulled the drawer open with none of the hesitation of last time and the first thing he saw was the red _Smirnoff _label screaming up him.

Victor’s heart skipped a traitorous beat, tips of his fingers starting to tremble. He didn’t remember putting that there. He didn’t remember feeling it when he’d searched for the key for Yurio. He didn’t remember what he’d done in his sorry state a year ago, fresh in grief from his husband’s departure and a million bad decisions on the horizon…

But it didn’t stop him reaching numbly inside the draw and closing his fingers around the neck of the bottle. It was heavier than he’d expected. He’d forgotten how heavy glass bottles were.

He sat back on his heels, heart hammering in his chest.

He shouldn’t. 

He absolutely shouldn’t.

His one month sober chip from Yakov was sat proudly in the corner of his desk, a memento of how far he’d come, how little he really needed the bottle in his hand…

He didn’t remember making the decision to unscrew the lid.

It smelled like paint stripper.

_ He shouldn’t, _he reminded himself again, pausing. He didn’t want to throw away all his hard work, admit defeat all for one bad night.

...but it _ hurt _ , loneliness like a chasm in his chest and the idea that Yuuri was somewhere on the same Earth, happy and smiling with another, doing all the things they used to do together with another, making a life with another while Victor was _ left behind- _

The drink burned down his throat as he took a sip, grimacing against his own thoughts. And the taste. He’d forgotten the harsh taste, heartburn singing the inside of his ribs as it went down.

The second sip went down easier. 

By the fourth, Victor had actually thought of something to write for his letter. 

He pushed himself to his feet, warmth running through his veins and feeling unnaturally calm as he dragged the bottle up with him back to the desk.

* * *

The letter was short and brief, clutched tight in Victor’s hand by the time he staggered to bed in the early hours of the morning, eyes heavy and hurting from staying awake for so long. He’d already taken a few painkillers to help him drift off a little easier. He felt like he could sleep for a lifetime, body exhausted and mind unburdened. He was at peace, every word he’d written honest and true.

He wouldn’t send the letter. He couldn’t - he hadn’t written to share it, knowing it would open more wounds than it would heal at this point. Not this draft. Not this letter. Not yet. One day maybe, but not yet.

Besides, this one was barely legible.

Even Victor could tell it was a poor example, handwriting sloppy and uneven even without his swaying vision. It didn’t stop even after Victor’s head hit the pillow.

The bottle of vodka was left behind on the desk, less than an inch of liquid left in the bottom. It had gone all too quickly.

Victor found it hard to mourn its loss as he collapsed face first into bed though, bouncing off his pillow once and numb fingers barely clinging to his letter. He was still fully dressed. He laughed at the ridiculous thought - only to groan a second later at the headache pounding through his skull and the churn in his gut, stomach doing somersaults. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised he was feeling sick. He hadn’t drank so much in a _ long _ time.

It wasn’t enough to pick himself up from the pillow though, slipping in and out of consciousness and hoping that by the time he woke up in the morning, the sickness would be gone. He could feel the tablets working, lulling him to sleep. They pulled his eyes shut. 

His next breath came a little harder, chest tight and air raw against his throat. It hurt more than he expected it to, gasping, stomach heaving in shock.

He regretted everything.

Vomit dribbled pathetically out of the corner of his mouth, taste sitting sour on his tongue, sensation tickling his throat in the worst way as he sucked in a breath and took some of the sick with it. He coughed, spluttering. It didn’t help nearly as much as thought it would.

His chest hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt, aching hard in his chest and beating fast - too fast, running out of control. It sent licks of fire coursing through his chest, feeling the muscles clench tight and choking. They weren’t the only thing - Victor’s eyes rolled behind their sockets as his next breath pulled in more vomit than oxygen, gasping it into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. 

He needed to sit up, to roll over, to _ move _ \- anything to be able to breathe again, anything! He couldn’t move though, limbs feeling like they were made of lead, spine as heavy as wooden door over his back, pinning him down.

Tears leaked through the cracks in his flittering eyes, real panic setting into the last slither of sanity Victor had left. More vomit pooled into his mouth, helpless to fight it.

He clung to the letter for dear life with shaking, trembling fingers - until at last, they didn’t shake anymore. 

* * *

The next day, Yurio found him with his face down in the pillow, note still clenched tight in his stiff fingers.

* * *

_ ‘Dear Yuuri, _

_ I still love you. I’ll love you until the day I die. _

_ Yours, _

_ Victor’ _

* * *

“Yuuri… you need to sit down.”

Yuuri just stared. “What?”

He knew something was wrong the second he looked up. Phichit’s face was white, eyebrows knitted together, eyes visibly tearing…

Yuuri’s first thought was ‘who was it?’. His mom? His dad? Mari? He scrambled for his phone, fingertips tingling with terror, mind racing and heart in his mouth. Who was it? Anything but his family, anything…

He found his phone, clicking it to life.

_ ‘1 missed call from Yakov Feltsman’ _

Yuuri’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach, bitter with dread.

… and he _ knew. _

_ Oh God _ , he felt himself gasp to himself - not _ that. _

He glanced up to Phichit, eyes round and begging, silently pleading. No, it couldn't be. It just couldn’t…

Phichit just held his gaze though, eyes round and glittering. Phichit was sad. Phichit was never sad...

Yuuri snatched Phichit’s phone out of his hand, needing to see it for himself. 

Nothing could prepare him, crumpling down into his best friends arms a moment later, screams echoing harrowingly in his ears. It took him a second to realise they were his.

* * *

_ ‘World Champion Victor Nikiforov Dies, Aged 31’ _

* * *

They buried him in Hasetsu. 

It was the final nail in the coffin of Yuuri’s guilt, sealing it one last time, Victor getting one last stab at him. _ Hasetsu _, Yurio had said was in Victor’s will. Hasetsu - not St Petersburg. Hasetsu was where his heart was.

Yuuri stood at the back of the service as Victor was buried beneath the willow tree, hands clasped tight and eyes glistening with tears. A lump sat heavy and choking in his throat.

He couldn’t believe he was here.

It had taken him days to stop crying. He hadn’t called Yakov back. He hadn’t been able to speak, voice hoarse from sobbing and unable to choke out more than one word at a time before he was a mess again. Yakov had left a voicemail with his condolences. He didn’t tell Yuuri anything else about what had happened. Yuuri was glad - he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face it.

One look at Yurio’s face across the congregation told him with certainty that he wouldn’t. 

The once formidable teenager had grown up nicely since Yuuri had last lived in St Petersburg, shoulders filling out and baby face smoothed out into the smooth chiselled jaw line of a handsome young man. He was pale as a sheet now though, white as a ghost. Yuuri hadn’t heard him speak a word yet. His eyes gave him away the most though - glittering round and terrified, staring but not seeing anything. He looked positively traumatised. 

* * *

Yuuri wasn’t stupid. He knew what people said, what they whispered, what they were all thinking… it was his fault. 

And it was.

Victor had been fine before their divorce. Insufferable, but fine. It was only after Yuuri left that Victor had been disqualified from competition after all. That he’d retired. That he’d drank himself into a stupor most days to get through the hours according to Yakov. Yuuri could hardly blame him. He’d ruined Victor’s life.

And nobody - _ nobody - _ knew it better than him.

Eyes followed him around the circuit, watching him warily when they saw him pass at competitions. Everyone knew. Everyone talked about it.

The man who had killed Victor Nikiforov.

* * *

“Are you alright, dear?”

Yuuri didn’t look up as he trudged clumsily through the front door of the onsen, toeing off his shoes with less grace than he remembered possessing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mother, waiting from him by the kitchen.

He still didn’t look up.

“Yeah, mom,” he just muttered under his breath, shame spiking deep through his chest. “I’m fine.”

If he looked up, she’d see the red rings to his eyes. 

If he looked up, she’d see the bloodshot behind his irises. 

If he looked up, she’d smell the sake and vodka on his breath.

He could hardly tell her he’d been drinking his sorrows at Minako’s bar for the last three hours, crying into shot after shot, knocking back anything that might help numb the unbearable burn in his chest. Nothing helped.

So he didn’t look up.

* * *

Years passed. Mediocre years. Years off the podium, never quite good enough. Score never quite high enough. Heart never quite healed enough. Yuuri never won another medal for the rest of his career, sinking deeper and deeper into his pit of misery and obscurity with every competition that passed. 

He wasn’t even sure why he kept putting himself through it all - he didn’t even like skating anymore. He hated it. It sent ripples of guilt and fury running through him every time he was on the ice, hardly able to bear it.

He only did because as much as it hurt to remember, the ice was still where he felt closest to Victor.

* * *

On their wedding anniversary, Yuuri watched the sunset bathe the horizon in red and oranges from underneath Victor’s tree, fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of a champagne bottle. For their first meeting, at the banquet. They’d always liked champagne together. It always stirred good memories.

Yuuri watched the colours stretch over the world’s edge, regret and guilt burning deep in the pit of his stomach. His lip trembled.

Oh, how he wished to have had this moment differently. To have Victor in his arms, head resting in his lap while Yuuri fed him chocolate covered strawberries and sips of champagne from his own mouth, instead of-

Yuuri pressed his eyes shut, hardly able to bare the through.

_ Instead of Victor being six feet below him, gone _.

He brought the bottle up to his lips, taking another generous swig and feeling the bubbles pop as they slipped down his throat.

“Happy anniversary, lyubov moya,” he whispered, fingers threading through the grass at Victor’s headstone.

* * *

It was never harder than at the banquets. 

The first one Yuuri hadn’t even been able to make it downstairs, too busy screaming into his pillow in his hotel room in a vodka induced mania until he was numb. 

The next year, he’d barely qualified. 

The year after that, he hadn’t - brought along as Phichit’s plus one instead. 

And then the year after that, the worst of them all - Victor’s memorial. 

The Grand Prix Final in St Petersburg had been littered with tributes to their late Russian star, the whole event in his honour. The posters were his. The music was his. Even a lot of the finalists had worn replicas of his old costumes in tribute. It would have been wonderful … if only it hadn’t hurt so damned much. 

The organisers had invited Yuuri as their special guest, the whole world knowing that the love he and Victor had held for each other had never stopped even after their divorce. Yuuri suspected Yakov had something to do with it.

But seeing Victor’s smiling face plastered over the city, knowing that he was the one that killed that most wonderful man … it was almost more than Yurui could take.

He spent hours before the banquet in the hotel room with Phichit, panicking, crying, screaming until his eyes were rimmed red and his face puffy. 

He was terrified - terrified because there was a room full of people downstairs waiting to smile sadly at him, and offer their condolences, and Yuuri just wasn’t sure he could deal with the guilt. He’d killed their star. He didn’t deserve to be there, with Victor’s picture smiling over him like he hadn’t ruined his life, like he hadn’t been the reason, like he hadn’t-

“Yuuri!” Phichit snapped into his ear, wrenching him out of his trauma. “Yuuri, it’s okay. Everything’s okay. You’re okay-”

Yuuri blinked, the bathroom slowly filling in around him. That was right - he’d been gelling his hair when the panic had hit him - fingers shaky from the sake in his water bottle - sinking to the floor as his vision blurred and the screams bubbled in his throat, Phichit’s arms catching him just as the hysteria kicked in.

His chest hurt, ribs stinging with every sharp breath he pulled in. His head shook, dazed. “It’s not okay,” he breathed, voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s not o-okay. I can’t do this, I-I can’t - he -”

“He’d want you to be there for him, Yuuri,” Phichit said softly, arms tightening around him. “He’d want you to carry on.”

Downstairs, the media would be waiting too, the press waiting to make a story out of his grief. They’d see the red eyes. They’d see the the gaunt hollow to his cheeks. They’d see the horror on his face when endless pictures of Victor stared down at him and his heart broke because it _ just wasn’t him- _

“Yuuri-”

Yuuri didn’t want to go. He desperately didn’t want to go. He’d give anything to stay locked up in that hotel room for the night, screaming and drinking and trying to forget.

* * *

It took hours for him to calm down and another for Phichit to pull him together enough with endless concealer to make him look presentable again. Even then, he still looked a mess. He wasn’t under any illusion - he could wear all the makeup in the world, but he still knew that one look in his eyes would betray that he was really just as broken on the outside as he was the inside. 

Still, he showed his face.

_ One hour _, Phichit had promised. Just one hour to be polite, let the media get some pictures of him actually there and then he could leave. 

He so badly wanted to leave, to flee from the banquet hall with his tail between his legs as fast as his legs could carry him…

The champagne glass in his hand was all that kept him there, anchored to the spot by the refreshments table. His nerves were shot. He’d needed a drink. Phichit hadn’t let him have one while he was calming down in the room and Yuuri was gasping, pulse fast and blood pounding deafeningly in his ears. It shouldn’t have mattered that he hadn’t had a drink with Phichit - it wouldn’t change the fact that he’d already been drinking since 11am already. 

The chilled champagne was as refreshing as water compared to the luke-warm sake he usually indulged in nowadays, sweet and light as the bubbles popped on his tongue. If Yuuri were anywhere else, he’d even say it was nice.

As it was, it was alcohol and that was all he cared about.

Victor was everywhere.

In the banners hanging from the ceiling, in the pictures lining the walls, in the small thoughtful framed photographs on the tables… Yuuri couldn’t escape him, endless photos from interviews, photoshoots, even candid shots from his instagram page. He was inescapable. Yuuri couldn’t look at any of them without his heart lurching, pain squeezing achingly through his chest whenever those flat blue eyes found his from the photographs. 

They were nothing compared to how the real thing had been in life, how they’d sparkled and glittered, shimmering with ever changing shades of cerulean and turquoise.

Yuuri’s next breath hitched in his throat.

He downed another glass.

* * *

Forty eight minutes later, Yuuri jabbed his key card against the slot outside his hotel room door, the device dancing in his vision and his aim missing every time. He just couldn’t get it right. He could barely _ stand _to get it right - arm braced against the door frame to hold him upright and even then it far from kept him steady. He swayed precariously on the spot, a sour taste in his mouth. 

The champagne hadn’t gone down so sweet after all. Yuuri had lost track of how many glasses he’d had in the end - not that he’d been keeping count to begin with. He’d just drank to make the hour bearable, counting the minutes until he’d been able to escape.

He hadn’t taken a picture for the media in the end, everyone steering him a wide berth at the party.

He was grateful for that at least. He imagined that even one question, just one thing to get him to open his mouth, and only sobs would come forth, the anguish and pain he’d numbed with alcohol bubbling to the surface. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want people to see that. He didn’t want to ruin Victor’s night with that.

But the truth was that it was there - still simmering beneath the surface like it always was - because … he just wasn’t strong enough.

He missed him too much.

The card reader finally beeped and Yuuri’s hotel room door clicked open at last. 

The tears were already wet on his cheeks as he staggered over the threshold, barely enough feeling in his legs to walk at all. He itched for another drink - but he didn’t think he’d even make it to the mini-fridge, black spots already curling in the edges of his vision as he slumped faced down onto his bed instead. The world span sickeningly, the taste of vomit clinging to the inside of his mouth. He didn’t remember being sick.

He’d wanted to get drunk, ridiculously drunk like the first night he’d met Victor. Not to be able to relax, not to dance, or strip, or whatever other ridiculous things he’d done that night, but for the exact reason that he wasn’t _ exactly _sure what he’d done that night - to forget. If he drank enough, maybe he’d forget again.

God, it hurt now though!

His chest clenched tight with every flash of Victor’s face through his mind, stomach lurching, head pounding so hard he was all but praying for unconsciousness.

He wanted to pass out, to sleep through the pain. He wasn’t like Victor. He wasn’t strong and solid, and able to hide it all behind a mask. He wasn’t like him. He couldn’t bear it in the same way Victor had always been able to. His lip was quivering before he’d even finished the thought, more tears leaking pitifully down his face.

He wriggled on top of the sheets, fingers reaching inside his jacket to his inside pocket. His eye twitched as he moved, pain jolting through his chest. His shirt was wet with sweat, clinging to his body like a second skin.

He hadn’t noticed, gasping in a laboured breath as his tingling fingers nudged his phone free.

He was exhausted by the time it was out, gasping against the pillow. He couldn’t bear to move - moving just hurt even more - letting his arm hang down alongside the pillow by his head, numb fingers thumbing at the phone screen. His lock screen flashed. His hands were too sweaty to his fingerprint to work. What was his pass code again? He gritted his teeth as he tried to remember it, fighting through the ache in his skull and-

His body shuddered.

Yuuri’s eyes flashed wide as the pain exploded in his chest - worse than heartache, worse than mourning - pain like he’d never felt rippling through his rib cage and twitching up his left side. Red hot and raging - it felt like it was cleaving him in two.

His eyes rolled back in his skull, his next breath choked in his lungs. Now he didn’t want to pass out - now he was terrified. If he passed out, if he didn’t hold on…

He couldn’t breathe, fingers shuddering cold and helpless over his phone screen. If he could just focus, if he could get the pass code, dial for help-

The lock screen faded and Yuuri’s screensaver took its place.

Yuuri froze.

_ Victor _.

Smiling and radiant, beautiful in a white three piece suit - _ the _white three piece suit, from their wedding day, hand lifted to brush his bangs out of his face and gold ring catching the light. Confetti bloomed around him, smiling so wide his eyes were scrunched shut and his lips wrapped around that heart-shaped beam Yuuri had loved so much.

Yuuri stared at it for one more still, blissful second - the pain suddenly unimportant, fading to a dull throb as his head span. He laid his head down and stopped fighting.

His eyes closed.

* * *

The next morning, Phichit let himself into Yuuri’s room with the spare key the hotel had given him, hair wild and eyes weary. He strode in with sure, determined steps.

“Yuuri?” 

In the bed, Yuuri didn’t stir. 

Phichit rubbed his eyes, crossing to the window on the far side of the room. He wrenched the curtains open, bright daylight streaming in mercilessly. “Yuuri, are you still asleep? You’re flight is in_ four hours _. Have you even packed? I know you didn’t want to stay here longer than necessary so I made sure that-”

He wasn’t sure what made him freeze. 

Maybe it was the chill to the air or the unnatural stillness out of the corner of his eye, but the moment he turned back to the bed, the words died on his tongue.

Yuuri hadn’t moved, faced down in the pillows. His back was still, unmoving.

He took a wary step forward. “Yuuri?”

_ Nothing. _

Deep down, he guessed he already knew by that point. He still stepped closer though, carefully perching himself on the edge of the bed, fingers reaching for Yuuri’s hand on the pillow. He was still holding his phone, fingers lax around the still shining picture of Victor from the screensaver. The battery was low, barely clinging to life.

Phichit pressed his fingers to the inside of Yuuri’s wrist. His skin was cold. 

There was no pulse.

Phichit sighed, jaw clenching hard to stop himself from crying. He smoothed his fingers out, down the back of Yuuri’s. Glassy brown eyes were still trained on the phone, on Victor’s picture. 

Phichit wasn’t surprised. 

Just sad.

* * *

A year later, Yurio laid down white lilies by the willow tree in Hasetsu with a heavy heart, the warm spring sunshine beaming down on him. It glistened over the matching headstones, two side by side under the tree. 

They’d buried Yuuri next to Victor.

It was the obvious choice.

If Yura closed his eyes he could almost hear their laughter in the sea breeze, could feel the way his skin prickled on instinct when they'd been gross together in front of him… a small, sad smile flickered on his lips, tucking back his long blonde hair out of his eyes as he straightened up. The golden strands caught in the sunlight. It played tricks on his eyes, the light dancing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught it shift in shades of shimmering black and stark silver, melding together around the gravesides.

They were together, he believed. They had finally found their peace.

_ At last. _


End file.
